


P.S. 9, 16

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Attempted murder of one's children, But sort of happy end, Case Fic, Gen, Insanity, Serial Killers, Suicide, or hopeful end, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: I can't believe I missed writing one at first, I am an idiot LOL!Is Miss Causey right in suspecting her father's death was unduly hastened? Holmes and Watson will discover something horrifying.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KnightFury](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=KnightFury).



> A.N. Happy Birthday to my dearest Holmeses! Namely, Sherlock and KnightFury, whose last name might not be technically Holmes but who deserves the title for both sharing some quirks (thankfully not indoor shooting!) and having an enciclopedic knowledge of Canon, Victorian England and the sleuth’s character. Many, many happy returns!!! I have been fighting with writer’s block very much, lately, so this is penned to the last second and hence unbetaed and unBritpicked. I apologise very much, and I hope the result is acceptable nonetheless, though the more I write the more I fear it’s not. ^^’ Also, yes, the title is a code – have fun with that!

 It was a cold winter evening when Miss Causey came to seek Holmes’ help. She was a dark-haired, young woman – around 20 years old or so – and pretty, but for her red-rimmed eyes. She’d clearly been crying a lot, and her mourning dress left no doubt as to why. “There must have been foul play, Mr. Holmes, I’m certain!” she cried passionately.

With the help of a cup of tea, she could be persuaded to give us facts, rather than conclusions. Of course, Watson had to soften the blow when the consulting detective chided her rather sharply about that. The raw data were these: our client’s father had fallen ill about a month ago. Still, the man was relatively young and normally vigorous, so that his family had every hope to see him get better. Instead, after a while admission in hospital had been necessary, and there, the man had died rather quicker than someone being properly treated should have been.

Upon request, the young lady said that she could not imagine a reason for anyone to desire her father’s death – he’d been an honest man, and highly regarded by his friend, as far as she knew.But the sudden, unexpected death had persuaded her that someone had hastened his departure.

Holmes turned to his Boswell and declared, “This sounds like a case you could unravel better than me, my dear boy. I will certainly need your professional advice, as an expert. Does the situation look suspicious to you?”

Their client frowned at having her beliefs challenged, but Watson carefully replied, “I should like to talk about it with the doctor who cared for Mr. Causey. He might have preferred not to stir a hornet’s nest, but if anything was uncommon about the course of the illness, he would have noticed. If he’s worth his salt, at least.”

It was a slow period, so – even if it could amount to one grieving woman being paranoid – they accepted the case. Whether they really found a murderer, or assured her that no misdeed was behind the death, hopefully they would give her closure. 

So, the next logical step was the hospital. It would be difficult, of course. Miss Causey had come to them way too late, her love, worry and suspects naturally warring with her natural shyness. Nobody really wanted to entertain the chance of a loved one being murdered, and involving strangers into the grieving process. Without a clear motivation for anyone, she had nothing more than a hunch that ‘things went wrong’ – anyone knowing human nature would have expected her to talk herself out of going through with her ‘fantasies’ many times.

Even if she’d come to them the very same day, there was every chance that the crime scene – if crime there had truly been – would already have been cleaned and disinfected to boot. But days later? Not only by then whatever physical clue had already been destroyed, in the modern, state of the art hospital Mr. Causey’s family had chosen, looking for the best. Dozens of traces had been left since then, by people entirely uninvolved with their possible victim. And most of them had been destroyed in turn. Unless the doctors themselves recognised foul play, and ordered the room to be preserved until the arrival of the police, this hospital was actually one of the best places you could pick to commit a crime, nurses cleaning after you.

Rather than basing himself on physical clues, this time the consulting detective would have to do something he was just as adept to, and took a different sort of pleasure in (he blamed granpa Vernet for this one; art was not limited to music only, or simple observation). Extracting information from unwilling witnesses – as always – required presenting a facade, playing a role. And part of Holmes should have been on a stage. Finding a way to indulge both his passions at once – puzzle solving and acting – was a welcome occasion.

Bless people for being so unwilling to entertain the possubility of law being breached on their premises when someone hinted at suspicions, but being very eager to gossip and share information one would think should be private. If they cared more about truth than their reputation – or at least the one not involved with a crime did – the consulting detective would not have a chance to enjoy being an actor, if for a short while. Medical professional, though, were an even more tightlipped bunch than most other professions. They would not open as easily with a stranger.

“We have to; you wouldn’t want all the neighbourhood to know every illness you have...especially if you caught it in a way less innocent than the common cold,” Watson had pointed out, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “But don’t worry. Truth is, while we don’t easily open with just anyone, we love to gossip with colleagues just as much as anyone else. I’ll be your man, if you trust me to find information for you.”

“Of course. It would be very useful to me. Still, I wouldn’t want you to do all the work. I have a certain scientific preparation, if not as comprehensive as yours. Do you think I could pass for a nurse looking for a new job and mingle with them? That’s a role I’ve never had to play, and with you being a doctor, if the murder – in case murderer happened – managed to got at the victim because someone was negligent in some way, they might not want to share. While I am an expert at coaxing the truth out of people if I can persuade them I’m one of them,” Holmes replied.

“I suppose you could. We just need to brush you up on some jargon, and a quick overview of all the duties you’re supposed to already have regularly accomplished. But I’m sure the lesson will go quickly,” the doctor agreed.

So, for once, Watson was the teacher, and Holmes the student. Many things he already knew – being intimate with the different ways a person could be killed meant having a rather good idea of a body’s functioning – and he would wave his friend to signal him to skip to the next part.

But some of the good doctor’s knowledge floored him. The endeavour of keeping a body healthy – even from the perspective of a nurse, who wouldn’t need as much deep study as a doctor – entailed so much more than he’d expected. (And thankfully he was not squeamish at all, otherwise even the conversation about daily chores would have him retching, much less if he was asked to help to prove himself.)   

When his Boswell was satisfied, they started the reconnaissance. They didn’t enter the hospital together, of course – better not offer people any chance to relate the two of them. John went in first, during what should be the doctor’s lunch hour. He mentioned that he’d heard great things of the doctor, and that –having recently come back from the war (which was technically true) – he looked for friendship and guidance. “I’m so used to having to make do, it will feel weird having to follow proper procedure again,” he remarked, with a self-deprecating laugh.

A good deal of buttering the man up (and an offer of lunch) later, and soon doctor Live, Mr. Causey’s physician, treated Watson like a best friend, cracking jokes (“With a name like mine, what career could I start?”) and revealing anything his new acquaintance asked about in detail. Of course, the detective’s Boswell had to intersperse questions about the case with more casual ones, but by the end of their repast, Watson believed that he had all the information he could reasonably hope to obtain.

As for the sleuth himself, he slipped in a hour later, with a tale about the doctor he’d worked for dying on him and his consequent decision to try and seek employment in an hospital, where such an event would not mean termination of his own career. Offering a bit of gossip first, and eagerly offering to help his possible future colleagues in this or that duty (ensuring that way that he got the jobs he was sure he would not botch up), led naturally to conversation. Not a long discussion with anyone in particular, but a few words here, a few words there, with as many people as possible. By the time he left, Holmes was confident that he knew about the hospital’s goings and Causey’s staying in particular more than its director.                  

When they regrouped at their flat, Holmes sighed in disappointment. “This could have been a challenging case – what with the lack of physical clues – but I am afraid it is nothing more than human stupidity. Mr. Causey might indeed have been universally loved. He had the bad luck to entrust his health to a moron. It appears that doctor Live’s main interest is chasing after nurses – well, one particular, recently widowed nurse, who seems to spend more time ‘catering’ to him that working herself – rather than doing his job properly. He has a higher body count than every other doctor in the hospital, but of course, he won’t lose his job. Not when he can write his own death certificates and say it was this or that illness – which technically was, I suppose, but he’s meant to stop it from happening. How he hasn’t been inundated by medical malpractice lawsuits is a wonder to the nurses. They maintain that he must be a very sweet talker. We might suggest such a course to our client, perhaps.”

“It’s odd,” Watson replied, frowning. “I had a rather long conversation with the doctor in question, on professional matters, and while I can see why he would be deemed a charming and persuasive conversationalist, he was certainly no bumbling idiot. He talked about the latest discoveries in our field showing awareness of the facts and the procedures, and more than awareness – understanding. I cannot fathom that I could have misunderstood the man’s character so utterly, no matter how good a pretender he might be.”

“I won’t insult you asking if you are quite certain, my dear boy. I know when to bow to superior expertise, and if nurses cannot quite comprehend the brightness of the man, his character or indiscretions notwithstanding, I will trust your judgement over theirs or even mine. But this opens a worrying line of enquiry. If he’s not a bumbling fool, why a body count so high? However distracted by his on-duty little romance he might be, shouldn’t the two things cancel each other out and leave him with an average performance?” Holmes enquired frowning.

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, my dear?” the doctor retorted, mouth tight. He’d liked the man. He’d been a perfectly cheerful and entertaining companion. Could he really hide such a black heart?

“Maybe Miss. Causey and I were both right, she fearing murder, and I assuming malpractice. Her father’s departure might have been artificially hastened, not by some mysterious, unknown enemy, but by the very doctor he’d entrusted his life to,” Holmes theorized.

“A doctor who made a habit out of breaking his hippocratic vow and killing patients, instead. How was he never caught? Never even sued?” Watson concluded for him, marching back and forth in indignation.

“You met him. You tell me,” the sleuth quipped, already planning how to stop the man.

“Because people are supposed to trust their doctor, and his manners are flawless,” his Boswell sighed, stopping in front of his friend. “We have to stop him!”

“Obviously,” the detective agreed, with a little smirk.

It took a few days before taking action. When facing any killer, understanding his modus operandi and quirks was what kept you alive. They investigate the records; send the Irregulars to tail the man; Watson ‘casually’ met him twice and, amidst harmless chatter, sounded him for details that might prove enlightening; Holmes ‘accidentally’ met some of the nurses in a public place, too, and clarified a detail or two.

One thing they discovered was that ‘his’ widow nurse’s husband, too, had died quickly despite all the care and drugs she provided him – drugs the doctor ordered. That despite all the time they spent being unprofessioonal, she was always avalaible for the doctor’s patients, going even beyond her duties. The more they learnt, the less she looked like a smokescreen and more like an accomplice. A very willing one, if apparently harmless excerpts of conversation people gossipped about were taken into context. Still, actually finding evidence against the couple might prove difficult. What would persuade a logic might of the existence of a serial killer would not persuade a jury. It was galling!

The surveillance continued, hoping their quarry would slip. After two weeks. They realised that, evidence or not, they had to intervene immediately. The female half of the demoniac couple had been heard complaining of her children...and apparently her lover had suggested that they might be so whiny and clingy because they were unwell, and promised to come over to check them.

The fact that the children might be grieving – they had lost their father, after all – rather than ill had not entered anyone’s mind, it seemed. And true, it was an almost too unnatural crime to even contemplate...but these were people already accostumed to murdering the weak, and in their care. Holmes knew all too well that parents killing children was not unheard of in criminal history. With their record, it was better to intrude than risk a preventable innocent death.

Holmes and Watson did not bother knocking. With the suspicion of a murder being committed that very moment (the news had reached them way later than they’d have liked), they broke in, to the shock and outrage of doctor Live, who was apparently relaxing with a good drink.”What does this intrusion mean?” the man growled, startled.

Watson levelled his gun at him before the man got in his head to fight. “It means that you’ve been discovered. There will be no more murders for you to cover up.”

“Murders? I am a doctor, colleague. I can never commit a murder. Simply, the power of life and death is given to us to wield. However we think best,” the killer retorted, sounding honestly puzzled, as if Watson had missed some basic lesson at uni.

“Personally, I think best that you be gunned down like a rabid dog, and I am insulting animals, because even that would have more humanity than you. First do no harm. Did you forget that?”

“Half of what we do, if not more, is harmful at the same time it heals. We’re the ones calling the shots. You can’t honestly be blaming me. By selecting who lives and who doesn’t, I’m actually working for the betterment of humanity as a whole,” the murderer reasoned, perhaps encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t been shot yet.

“Give me an example, then. What did Mr. Causey do for you to decide that humanity would be better off without him?” Watson inquired.

“He told me he hated hospitals first thing as I came to see him. I made the logic choice, didn’t I?” the other quipped with a smile.

“You’re insane!” the Boswell blurted out. In the meantime

Holmes, instead of staying to interrogate the man, ran further – he needed to find the lady of the house before she attempted anything. And he barely arrived in time. He slammed open a door to find the woman, with a cup in her hand, cooing to a child of perhaps eight that the doctor said she had to take her medicine. The young girl complained that she didn’t feel ill, and she wanted to leave the bed.

The woman startled and turned, more furious than scared, intimating to the stranger to leave immediately. “Of course I will,” the sleuth agreed, “as soon as you hand me that cup. It’ll need to be analyzed, and with both yours and the doctor’s medical backgrounds it’ll be hard to persuade them of an accidental mistake. Maybe I can’t bring you in for all the crimes you committed, but this one attempt might horrify people enough to ensure you both can’t hurt anyone else.”

If she’d been thinking straight, she would have simply thrown the cup – or let it fall and stepped on it. But she realised that the game was up – they were discovered, and they would forever be observed, suspected, and eventually, they’d slip up. So, unthinking of the circumstances, she spit, fire in her indigo eyes, “You think you can lock me up? Cheers to that!” and drank her own poisoned drink before he could stop her.

She died almost immediately, and the screams of the young girl attracted her older sibling, a willowy teen that stopped on the threshold at the sight before her.Holmes had no idea how to comfort the two shocked children. How did you help out in such traumatic circumstances when you were a stranger? He was half tempted to leave to call someone that would be able to – surely the girls had some relative, he’d spied a photo of someone who looked like an aunt – when, after a short but very awkward time, Watson came up to look for him. “I heard a scream, and thankfully Lestrade arrived, so...” he said, his voice trailing off at the spectacle.

Yet another stranger was enough to push the teen to run past Holmes to huddle with her little sister.           

“Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe,” Watson said softly.

“We will call whomever you wish. Someone you love, who can help?” the sleuth decided to hazard, mimicking his friend’s tone.

The little girl’s screams had quietened to sobs in her sister’s arms, and she murmured shyly, “Aunt Peggy?”

“Aunt Peggy, sure,” both men agreed, nodding solemnly. They left the girls alone, and in short order the murderous madman had been removed by Lestrade and the girls’ aunt – on their father’s side – had been informed and came to take over the situation, full of love and determination. The girls would be safe with her, and hopefully they would eventually heal.

“I failed,” Holmes commented despondently on the way home.

“You did not. That little girl is alive because you acted quickly. The woman was insane – they both were, at that. The doctor seems so persuaded he acted on his own right that he wasn’t shy telling Lestrade exactly that, with much vehemency, instead of denying the truth. There was much inhumanity and senseless death, in this case. But we put a stop to that,” his Boswell replied earnestly.  

His reasoning seemed to ease the sleuth’s spirit. “That’s what we do,” he remarked, more lightly.

Watson nodded, with a soft smile.  


End file.
